


Desire

by Destinyllama



Category: The Secret Saturdays
Genre: Blood, Body Horror, Child Abuse, Emotional Manipulation, Graphic Violence, Human Experimentation, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Slavery, extreme poverty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 20:07:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11562411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destinyllama/pseuds/Destinyllama
Summary: He was a child of the slums, orphaned and desolate. No one wanted him.





	Desire

Monsoon season. The gentle pitter-patter of rain on the shacks and shanties around him filled his ears. There was a gentle breeze that rustled the trees and plastic tarps. The wind pushed trash into the creek forming in the dirt street. Despite being in a crowded slum of over a million people, the child felt alone. It wasn’t a disturbing solitude. He was content as warm water trickled down his back and legs. His life was full of people. He was packed into muggy concrete buildings with droves of other children just like him, where the humidity would make his skin stick and sweat. The long hours of work would make his head spin and fingers sore. The smell of human musk would be overpowering, and not even the large industrial fans in the factory could dispel the heat and discomfort. But here, he was free and alone. There were no blinding fluorescent lights here. No supervisors to yell and beat him for slowing down the production line. His only company was the sky, the rain, and the trees. They spoke softly to him through rustles and trickling. By the way the soft mud stuck to his tiny hands. They were not loud or angry or unsympathetic, but they were not eternal. He knew tomorrow he would have to return to the factory if he wanted to survive. He was a child slave, voiceless and orphaned. His name was Munya: desire.

* * *

 

Staying silent was the way to stay safe. Stay silent, work hard, and the supervisors would ignore you. The best response to shouting or punches was to be submissive and obedient. The proper response to his peers was silence as well. When they would tell him he was worthless, that he must be the son of a prostitute because of his light skin and red hair, it was best to ignore them. What they said was true though. He was a bastard. When he looked in the mirror, he didn’t see the dark hair and hazelnut skin of an Indian. He was pale and ghostly. His sunken eyes and cheeks didn’t look like they belonged to a ten year old boy. They looked like they belonged to a corpse. To a monster. Maybe that’s what he was. That was why his mother had given him up. That was why he felt so isolated.

* * *

 

He wasn’t stupid, unlike the other boys. So many were addicted to heroin. He sometimes saw the older junkies in the slums, laying on their sides in piles of rags. Some of the boys told him heroin made people sick. One boy shivered as he described it, eyes wide. Opium killed men; it struck at their hearts. The vomiting and fever killed them. That was why Munya told himself he would never take it, but he understood why the addicts did. The dirt and grime was suffocating. There was only so much starvation and ruin that one could take before trying to kill the pain. When an urchin like him walked down the street, he was a ghost. The more fortunate members of society had long since learned to avert their eyes. There were thousands of children wandering the streets just like him, begging at the heels of strangers. It felt as though he didn’t exist, because in the crowd’s mind, he didn’t. Sometimes he felt like there was nothing to live for. Even if it was through sickness, perhaps he should just let himself die. He could slip into the sweet embrace of heroin and sleep forever.

* * *

 

“It’s a very good job,” The recruiter said in breathless Hindi, ”Especially for a boy like you.”

Munya frowned at that statement. “Boy like you.” He felt the recruiter was implying something.

“They’re looking for boys who can do hard work for good pay. Better work then you’ll find in Mumbai, anyway. You’ve got a good amount of muscles? You fight?”

“No,” Munya answered bluntly. He didn’t like the way the other referred to him. It was like talking about a piece of meat.

“Ehh, that’s a shame… I’m sure they’ll take you anyway! You’re perfect for it…”

It was profitable, and Munya was homeless. He needed the money. The job was far away, but they would provide transport. Munya climbed onto a crowded bus with what few belongings he had: the clothes on his back, a pair of worn out sandals, a water bottle, and 185 rupees. Those around him were equally ragged. A thin coat of dirt lined every inch of the coach, crunching under his shoes. The bus rode out of the city and into a countryside Munya had never seen before.

* * *

 

“Name.”

“Munya.”

“Surname.”

“Don’t have one.”

“What?”

“I’m an orphan.”

The woman looked at the boy with distain and continued the questionnaire. They were in a stereotypical doctor’s office. What Munya would expect a doctor’s office to look like. She checked his blood pressure and heart rate. Reflexes. Cognition. Eyesight. Everything Munya could think of. At the end, he was escorted out of the office by a guard. After traveling through the labyrinth of the building, Munya noticed the subtle ring of distant yelling. The source of the yelling, he found, was a cellblock. Hundreds of men, women, and children caged like livestock. He stumbled backward in a daze as he viewed the scene. A mass of sunken, melancholy eyes stared back at him. Thirsty, cracked mouths were agape. Some were bandaged. Others mutilated. A few had missing limbs, and IV bags hung from the bars of their cages. Munya struggled and fought against the grip of the guard, but he, too, joined the mass of prisoners. How many, like him, had been lured in by promises of money?

The cell was sparce, cold, and white. There was only a toilet, a drain, and the floor. Paint chopped off the corners of the walls where many had brushed up against them. The air was hot and muggy, and the noise of the other prisoners didn't stop. At night, they shut off the lights, leaving Munya to huddle in the dark corner of his cell and watch the guards pass by.

In the morning, he awoke to the squeaking of his cell door opening. He made a rush for escape but was caught by two guards before he could even leave the cell. He felt a sharp prick in his neck and fell into unconsciousness.

* * *

 

“…The subject’s body has shown considerable change in morphology. Muscle mass has increased. Transformation is accompanied by changes in skin pigmentation and firmness. In some places, most notably the face and back…”

Munya felt a gloved hand brush up against his skin. It was as though he were asleep. The voices wafted into his mind, speaking some strange foreign language. His vision was black, and his body was heavy. Eventually the voices became clearer.

“Vitals?”

“They’re stable!”

“Oh thank god! He’s alive! I’ve done it! Finally!

“Just hold on, Vincent. We still need to check his cognition. He’s coming out of anesthesia.”

Munya’s eyes fluttered open to a blinding light. His vision was blurry. Two shadows stood over him, focusing into human shapes. His skin tensed and piloerected against the sudden cold of the operating table. He shifted, only to find his wrists and ankles bound. It was hard to find the will to struggle. His fangs clicked against each other in frustration. His fangs. Fear shot through his body and sent a jolt straight to his heart. Something was very wrong with him.

“Pupils normal and equal,” One man shone a flashlight in his eyes, ”Heart beat and breathing… I don’t hear any heart murmurs and ECG is regular. Breathing is healthy, too.”

Munya finally had the chance to look at one of the men that stood over him. A surgical mask, gloves, and lab coat adorned this one… And the other the same, along with a full mask. These were surgeons. Munya noticed a dull throbbing in his neck. In his spine.

Oh, oh god. What had they done to him?

“…Hello? Child, are you awake?”

Adrenaline pumped through his veins, propelling him to action. He struggled violently against the restraints. He had to escape.

“Vincent, Vincent! Do something!”

“Oh, what is he going to do, really? He’s strapped to a table—“

The boy tore through the restraints, launching off of the table. ‘Vincent’ screamed, stumbling backwards, and the other scientist fled the room. Munya threw his arms wildly, knocking over whatever equipment he staggered into. Scalpels, kidney dishes, and forceps flew into the air as he threw a metal table to the floor. The electrocardiograph fell to the floor with the sound of shattering plastic as he ripped the IV and cables from his body. A splash of blue arachnid blood flew into the air from his wound as he charged toward the scientist. His opponent acted in reflex, the sudden shock of terror triggering him to tackle Munya. Munya staggered but lifted the other into the air with ease, throwing him down.

The scientist sputtered and scurried to get up before Munya pounded his fist into the tiled floor. To the youth’s shock and amazement, the blow had shattered the tile, leaving a sizable dent. His discovery was interrupted as Vincent knocked him to the floor, grabbing his head in the motion. Claws sunk into his skin, drawing blood, and he screamed. In desperation, he kicked and struggled, but it was far too late to keep Vincent from slamming his head into the ground. His ears rang and vision blurred from the blow, but that all stopped when he was pushed yet again into the earth. Darkness.

* * *

 

He woke up in a cell, his feet and arms chained to the wall. For a moment, in the blackness of sleep, he felt content. He felt human. The scraping of chitin against concrete jolted him awake, reminding him of the harsh truth. Jutting from his back were four arachnid limbs, alien, yet unmistakably his. His face and skin were no longer human. His body was irreversibly twisted into a shape not his own. He was a monster. A creature created not by God but by science.

Hours passed, and then days. Munya was certain that they had left him for dead. It must be retaliation for his outburst. They had maimed him and left him for dead. His final sights would be the fluorescent lighting and the sterile white walls. He closed his eyes and resigned himself to death.

The sound of the cell door opening brought him to life. In stepped one of the scientists from before, the one that had made him into… This. The man was tall and yet hunched over. There was something unmistakably decrepit about this man, yet his eyes shined with a vibrance that unsettled Munya to the core. Strangest of all was the mask that hid the man’s face. It was smooth and white like a skull. Fitting.

The man spoke something in a language Munya didn’t recognize and then spoke in clear, eloquent Hindi, ”…How about this? Do you speak Hindi?”

Munya opened his mouth to reply but found that he could not. He grunted in confusion. Had they robbed him of speech too? In the end, he settled for a nod yes.

“Oh, what a shame. You suffered some brain damage in your… Outburst. I fear I may have damaged your Broca’s area.”

Munya’s eyes widened in fear. Was he then… A mute? He backed into a corner as the man drew closer. This wasn’t a friendly visit. This was danger.

“Now, now. I’m not going to hurt you, child… I only want to look… Hmm…”

Munya felt like a caged elephant, being gawked at in a zoo. He was an oddity to this man, a spectacle.

“Look at you, you’re a monster,” The man grinned in a way that made Munya’s stomach turn, ”…But so am I.”

He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms and sighing melodramatically, ”…The world can be so cruel to our kind, can’t it. You’ve been through so much difficulty for a child; I can see it in your eyes. You’re quite lonely, aren’t you?”

Munya averted his eyes. The man was right, and the boy didn’t care for it. He was a monster. He was alone, or so he thought. This man was strange, unsettling. There was a cunning light behind that mask. His eyes were predatory, fierce. ‘Human’ was a facade. Underneath was… Something else. Munya wasn’t quite sure it was something he could truly sympathize with. The legs jutting from his back said otherwise. Munya was no longer human.

“…But, I also see fire. You have a thirst for life, my boy. It can only be quenched with survival,” The man’s mood shifted to one that was distant and irritated. He looked away from Munya, ”…The department was going to throw you away. They consider you a ‘failure,’ but I can’t stand anyone dismissing my work like that… The ingrates must be blind not to see your potential…”

Munya looked down as the man slid up to him. The mutant flinched when he felt those thin, cold hands touch his back. Something was off here… The man had claws.

“…You are such a beautiful thing. My own statue come to life, like a modern Pygmalion… Clay moulded by my hands… A work of art,” The man ran his gloved hand over the arachnid legs, ”Beasts like us hold the hidden beauty of the world, child, and that is something humanity will never understand.”

Beauty? Munya could only scoff. There was nothing beautiful about him. There had never been anything beautiful about him. His entire life he had been covered in dirt and sweat. He was trash in the gutter, ignored by everyone who passed by. …What could this man possibly find beautiful about refuse?

“…Would you like to leave this cell, Munya? That is your name isn’t it? That’s what we had on file,” The man took his hand, something that made him uncomfortable. Yet, he let it stay, ”…Let me take you under my wing, Munya. I can teach you how to survive as a monster in the world of man. Something like you shouldn’t just be discarded.”

What was this man asking? For him? What was this? Was this some kind of joke?

Munya pursed his lips and looked down at the chains covering his hands and feet. He didn’t want to be in this cell. He wanted to be anywhere else. He wanted to disappear in the monsoon, like trash flowing down a canal in the rain. He sighed and nodded at the scientist. Just take him. Take him away. The man smiled and shook his hand.

“ _Enchanté_. Dr. Vincent Argost,” His smile turned into a coy grin, ”…I’m not actually a doctor, but we’ll let that be our little secret, won’t we?”


End file.
